Party Poison
by Raven05GDMCR
Summary: Killjoy 'verse. Early Killjoys, the making of Party Poison. Mild language. One Shot


**Alright, so, this is the first story I've uploaded to , and it is set in the Killjoy 'verse as depicted in the My Chemical Romance album, Danger Days. And, as you may guess from the title, it focuses on one Killjoy in particular. This was basically an idea I had about how Party Poison became... Well... Party Poison.**

**I do NOT own Party Poison, any of the Killjoys or anything to do with My Chemical Romance *insert amusing comment on what would happen if I did own them here***

**Well, enjoy, and please feel free to review :)**

He stared down at the ray gun in his hands. They'd all just got one, under his own instructions. "We're rebels now, outlaws. As far as _they_ are concerned, we are the enemy. We need to be ready for any fight they bring to us, or that we bring to them." His words. Spoken confidently as his brother and two best friends listened carefully. He'd spoken of weapons, of learning to fight, learning to steal, learning to kill. "We need to protect our identities, we'll be harder to find if they don't know who we really are." That one had proven a little more difficult. All of them were proud of who they were, what they were. No one much liked the idea of hiding that. He'd tried to explain that he agreed, he was proud too, but what good would they be dead and gone within the month because they had left themselves too exposed? Eventually they agreed, seeing the logic behind it.

He ran his hand over the gun, holding it in one hand, feeling it's weight, getting used to the feel of it. Holding it up, aiming it, trying to imagine himself firing it. To wound. To kill. Lowered it again. All the while his mind was thinking over the idea of a new identity. A new name. They already had the name they called themselves, collectively. The Killjoys. The name had presented itself easily, and fit perfectly. Now everyone was waiting for their personal names to do the same.

Standing up, he headed towards the bedrooms, hoping for a brief respite from the clamour of thoughts and voices and images in his head.

It didn't work out that way.

He'd laid the gun on his bed, Now, here he was staring in the mirror. Hands gripping either side of the sink below it. Carefully, methodically taking in every inch of his face, one so well known, by so many. A vaguely familiar thought popped into this head. _I am sick of seeing my face. _Had he said that before? A lifetime ago, maybe. He stared at the eyes he'd once circled in black, once smudged with red.

He looked down at his clothes, same ones he'd been wearing when he and his brother first ran from the city. Dark jeans, a dark t-shirt. Sensible, when you're trying to steal away into the night, when you're trying to hide.

Raising his eyes to the mirror again. Wearily, "Who the fuck are you?"

Just a man, not a hero.

Wait.

Yes, they needed to hide their identities, that much was obvious, sensible, even. But they, the Killjoys would _not_ disappear. Would _not_ blend in. Would _not_ hide. They would blaze a fucking Technicolor trail straight through this fucking desert. Outlaws, rebels. The motherfucking enemy against the black and white anonymity of the Blind.

_Art is the weapon. _

Across the room, rifling through the bag of clothes and belongings he'd barely touched since they got here, finding stuff he hardly remembered owning. Pulled out a couple of items. Perfect.

Kicked off his boots, changed the dark jeans for light ones, the t-shirt also swapped. The boots, he kept. This was feeling right.

Then he started hunting through the cupboards, the drawers, not knowing what he was looking for until it found them. Gun holster, immediately attached to his belt. Then, two things that made him smile. First, a mask, a yellow eye mask, decorated with simple blue circles and black triangles. And second, (couldn't believe he'd found this), hair dye. Closer inspection, red. Fucking sexy.

Hanging the mask off the top of the mirror, he got to work on his hair. Inspecting it in the mirror, it'd be difficult to work with, being jet black now, but maybe the dye would be strong enough, if not, it'd at least be a start. It was getting kinda long again, but he could certainly work with that.

A while later, and he was finally towel drying his hair, rubbing furiously at it out of impatience. Still slightly damp, he straightened up, flicking his hair up out of his eyes. Fingers still entangled in the top of it he stared, then grinned. Bright red.

Went back to the cupboards again. A couple more things. Blue leather jacket (which, later, would be tooled with his emblem), and brown, fingerless leather gloves. Shrugged on the jacket, pulled on the gloves. Picked up his gun as he went past, it was already feeling like a part of him, fit it snugly in the holster at his thigh. Finally, he retrieved the mask, slipped it on. Looked up at the mirror again. And found a confident grin on this lips. "Who the _fuck_ are you?" He asked, again. There was no hesitation.

Party Poison, leader of The Fabulous Killjoys.


End file.
